FALSE IMPRESSIONS
THE NEW EMBELLISHER threw slivers of turtle meat and garlic cloves into hot sesame oil. As it hissed and spat, he crushed dried herbs into his chubby palm with an enormous thumb, then tossed those in, too. I cringed as his long, dirty fingernails slipped between the flesh and shells of the shellfish to rip them apart and twist them in half. He cast the meat into the smoking oil and piled the shells on the table like a death heap of tiny skeletons. Wiping his hands on his thighs, he turned to his eldest son and demanded the jug of date beer, which he pressed to his thick lips and noisily gulped down. He noticed I was watching him and glared at me as he slapped his younger son on the back of the head.
“Clean up this mess!” he grunted at him. Belching, he turned his backside to me and stirred his dish.
I continued working in silence. As I plastered the flat rounds of unleavened dough inside the domed ovens, I pictured my father standing at the embers, looking over the fat embellisher’s shoulder.
“Tut-tut!” he would have said. “Olive oil for turtle—never sesame. You have the fire too hot; it will chase the taste right out of it! Never rush the cooking. Remember, perfect flavor comes with time and care.”
I grinned as I imagined the shock it would have been for my father to see the man’s filthy fingers. He’d always kept a basin of fresh water on the worktable
